Fitz did his best to put the prickly Thea out of his mind as he approached Jack’s table. If she didn’t want any friends that was her lookout. Although it was true that Greg had asked his crew to be kind to her, that wasn’t the reason he had spoken to her. He had thought she looked uncomfortable being subjected to the hostile scrutiny of pretty well everyone in the NAAFI and had wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. Her unbothered act hadn’t fooled him.
But Jack clearly needed his help more than Thea at the moment. The tail gunner made no attempt to return any of the greetings from anyone approaching his table but gripped his mug as though his life depended on it. No one else bothered to ask what was troubling him, but Jack was a fellow crew member, and to Fitz his crew were like his family.
Jack jumped when Fitz took the chair opposite, as though he hadn’t even noticed him approach.
‘Mind if I join you?’
Jack barely looked up. ‘Suit yourself.’
Fitz leaned across the table so he could speak without being overheard. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh, you know. The usual.’ Jack still wouldn’t meet his eye.
‘If by “the usual” you mean our impending mission while the entire Luftwaffe is intent on blowing us out of the sky, then I can’t say I blame you.’
Jack did look up then. ‘How can you make a joke out of it?’
‘Because I’d go mad if I didn’t.’ Fitz pulled his cigarette case out of his pocket and offered it to Jack before taking a cigarette for himself. He watched with increasing concern while Jack reached in his own pocket for his matches, then tried and failed three times to strike a match with a hand that shook so badly he seemed unable to make firm contact with the lighting strip. Finally Fitz took pity on him, struck a match and held it for Jack to use. Jack drew on his cigarette and then blew out a cloud of smoke in a long, shaky breath.
Fitz lit his own cigarette and waited until Jack seemed calmer before observing, ‘You always used to joke about our situation, same as everyone else. What’s changed?’
‘Promise you won’t breathe a word to anyone else?’
‘Cross my heart.’ In the circumstances, Fitz left out the hope to die part.
‘Remember the mission to Mannheim in December?’
‘I’m not likely to forget.’ C-Charlie had been hit by flak, injuring three crew members, Jack included. They had been lucky to make it home at all. ‘You seemed fine afterwards, though.’ In fact, he had seemed more high-spirited than usual, even going so far as to steal the station adjutant’s cap. While he had been wearing it.
Jack took another drag from his cigarette, flicking the ash into the ashtray before replying. ‘Yeah, but then we were stood down for a while.’ He shook his head. ‘Bad mistake. I had too much time to think. Mannheim haunted me. I couldn’t forget that if the shrapnel had hit just a few inches to the right, it would have got me in the heart instead of just taking a slice out of my shoulder. Then I’d have never seen my folks or my girl again.’
Fitz had no reply to that. For the most part he was able to lock away the dizzying thoughts of oblivion, but every now and again he would have a night when he was unable to sleep, and then the paralysing fear would strike. He would never admit this to any of his crewmates, though, not wanting to appear weak. Instead, he did his best to forget the danger, and he guessed the others did the same. Jack must be suffering intensely to give a voice to his fears.
‘How many ops have you got left – eight? Nine?’
‘Eight.’
Fitz nodded. He himself had five missions remaining until the end of his tour, the same as his pilot, Greg. However, his crew had been cobbled together from survivors of other aircrews, and he knew most of the men had a few more to go. ‘That’s not too long. Once you’re through, you’ll be able to take a cushy post as an instructor and see out the war as safe as anyone. No one can force you to do another tour.’ Although all aircrew were volunteers, those who completed their training were required to complete a tour of thirty missions. Once their tour of duty was over, they would be rotated to safer postings, often as instructors. Worryingly few aircrew actually completed their tour, but Fitz hastily dismissed that thought.
‘Don’t say that. You’ll jinx us.’
‘I don’t see why. We’re an experienced crew, and we’ve got one of the best pilots in the RAF. If anyone can make it through, it’s us.’ Fitz did his best to inject a confidence into his tone and expression that he didn’t feel. Although the most dangerous time for a crew was during the first five missions, there were so many factors completely outside a crew’s control that meant even the most experienced crews couldn’t ever say they were safe. Fitz’s original crew had completed five missions and he had had every confidence in them. If any crew was going to survive their tour, Fitz had been sure it would be them. But then Fitz had been forced to miss a mission due to injury, and that had been the mission from which Q-Queenie had failed to return.
‘You might make it to thirty, but I’ve got a bad feeling I won’t.’ Jack spoke in a low voice. ‘Ever since Mannheim, I’ve had nightmares about that night. I can barely close my eyes without seeing that bloody night fighter come roaring out of the dark, right at me, and not a bloody thing I can do about it because the hydraulics were jammed.’ He closed his eyes briefly, and for the first time the dark shadows beneath his eyes registered with Fitz. Fitz also noted with concern the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones; Jack clearly hadn’t been eating well. He cursed himself for not keeping a better eye on his crewmate. Two other crew members had been badly injured on the Mannheim mission and, as Jack had got away with a less serious injury, Fitz had neglected to consider the psychological effects of the whole experience. Being a tail gunner, Jack spent his missions sitting in the most exposed position in a Lancaster bomber – in a Perspex cupola, situated at the very end of the fuselage. When the hydraulics had frozen, it must have been a horrifying experience to see an enemy fighter approaching and not be able to rotate the turret to return fire, or even escape into the relative safety of the main fuselage. Fitz knew that some senior officers considered the bomber crews – who were mostly non-commissioned officers – to be malingerers if they succumbed to the interminable stress of missions and asked to be removed from duty. It was an attitude Fitz despised. It took an extraordinary amount of courage to climb into a Lancaster bomber every night, knowing you might never see the next sunrise. He wondered if he would have volunteered as aircrew if he had truly appreciated the danger.
‘Have you thought of speaking to the MO?’
Jack snorted. ‘Not bleedin’ likely. I don’t want to end up seeing one of those trick cyclists.’
The trouble was, Fitz was starting to think that seeing a psychiatrist was exactly what Jack needed. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad, would it?’
‘Are you saying I’m not man enough to stand being on the crew, is that it?’
‘Of course I’m not. The fact that you can still climb into a Lancaster after what happened proves you’re braver than most men I know.’
Jack subsided. ‘Thanks, mate. That means a lot coming from you.’
The two men sat without speaking for a while, although it was a companionable silence. Fitz gazed out of the window and was startled to see fog rolling in. It was looking more likely that operations would be cancelled, and he didn’t know how he felt about that. On the one hand it would give them an unexpected free day and a chance for Jack to recover some peace of mind. On the other hand, it would be yet another delay to the end of their tour. Fitz didn’t know if it would be better to end it all quickly or whether they should have more time off in between flights.
It was after all yet another delay, and it meant that they would be spending more time on the endless waiting; and it was the waiting that was, to Fitz, the worst part of being in a bomber crew. When there was nothing to do, he found himself dwelling on all the near misses of previous missions and what might happen on the next. When he was in the air, he was able to push his fears to the back of his mind while he concentrated on looking out for enemy fighters and dropping his bombs on the target. It was a bit like stage fright – the worst part was waiting in the wings for his cue. Once he was in front of the audience, he was able to get lost in the performance.
Fitz had become so lost in thought that he’d almost forgotten Jack was there, and he jumped when Jack spoke again. ‘What’s that going on in the parade ground?’
Fitz peered out. The fog bank hadn’t yet obliterated the view and, as the parade ground was not far away, he could make out the features of a man being escorted out in front of what appeared to be a hastily assembled parade. ‘Isn’t that Mickey Wright?’
‘Looks like it. What are they doing to the poor bloke?’
The words had barely left Jack’s mouth before it became all too obvious. Under the stern gaze of Group Captain Rhodes, an NCO stepped up to Wright and ripped off his sergeant’s stripes and his aircrew brevet. Fitz watched, dry-mouthed in horror, as Wright was then marched to a waiting truck. Neither he nor Jack spoke another word until the truck had departed.
Finally Fitz took a sip of tea to moisten his lips before saying, ‘How could they do that to him? I heard he’d refused to fly, but he was clearly ill. He should be under medical care, not paraded like a criminal. He’s flown twenty missions, for goodness’ sake. He deserves a medal, not that.’
Jack shrugged. ‘I know. I don’t think he cares at this stage, though. As far as he’s concerned, it’s his only way out.’
Fitz could only shake his head, helpless in the face of injustice. It took a moment, therefore, to register that Jack was still speaking.
‘Lucky sod. At least he won’t be flying ops again.’
‘Is that what you want? To be treated like a coward and lose everything you worked so hard to achieve?’ In his shock, Fitz spoke more sharply than he had intended, and he cursed himself inwardly to see Jack go pale and seem to shrink into himself.
Thankfully a distraction arrived in the form of an announcement, informing aircrew that all operations were cancelled due to the fog.
Jack let out a shaky breath. ‘If you’d told me before the war that fog would come to be my favourite weather, I’d have laughed in your face.’
Fitz stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Let’s go to the pub.’ Hopefully there he could forget the cruel scene they had just witnessed and try to come up with the right words to help Jack get over whatever was ailing him.